Free Sociopath's Revenge by V.F. Mason Page B

could break.
    God, how could I say no to this?
     
    Moscow Bridge, Moscow, Russia
    "This is a dangerous game you're playing, my friend," Vitya whispered right before the Americans arrived at the meeting point on the bridge to seal the deal. He knew about the arrangement, and why I did what I did, but he still disagreed with me. Vitya preferred to kill them on the spot and then just find my brother.
    No one understood that no matter how much I wanted to, I just couldn't do it. Richard would be mine, and he would die a painful death. I still played variations of it in my head, coming up with one hideous plan after another.
    But S? Revenge belonged to my brother, and no one but me understood why he needed it. "The only kind I've played my whole life." My answer made him chuckle for a second, and then a scowl replaced the humorous expression.
    The driver emerged from the front seat, quickly ran to the back door, and opened it. First, one brown leather shoe peeked from the door, and then Benjamin, known to Damian and me as S, got out of the car wearing a mahogany suit and holding a cigar in his hand. When the wind knocked the ember off his cigar, he cursed and threw it in the river.
    Fucker.
    Richard joined him. He wore similar clothes and held a cane in his hand. For the first time, I paid attention to the limp in his right leg.
    Well, well. This information had me imagining one more plan in which I could painfully break him like he used to break me repeatedly from the time I was six years old to fifteen.
    No pleas, no cries, no begging, or whimpering would help him.
    They never helped me.
    "Control," Vitya said next to me. Only then, it hit me that my hands were fisted and ready to grab my knife from my back pocket, and my foot had stepped forward to stab the dirty fucker.
    Not yet.
    " Спасибо. "
    He shook his head at my gratitude, enough for me to see, but not enough for the guests to catch. " Не за что ." Then all conversation ceased as the men reached us and Benjamin extended his hand toward me. I gave him a short nod of acknowledgment. His eyes narrowed in displeasure, but he hid it well.
    The motherfucker was crazy if he thought his hands, or Richard's for that matter, would be touching me.
    "Konstantinov," he greeted.
    "Hill," I answered, but didn't say more. He'd be the one to bring up the contract.
    He rested his hand on the rail of the bridge, admiring the view. "Always loved the architecture in Russia. Impressive considering the regime the country lived in, or still lives in for that matter." He chuckled, and the air around me cooled a little as my men tensed, and me along with them. Americans always had primitive thoughts about Russia and the Russian people, and it pissed all of us off. Those prejudices only kept growing with the years, and the insulting things just continued popping up in the news. It felt like being a Russian was almost a crime, which was one of the reasons I always had a Jeguli, a typical Russian car, ready for me in the States and drove it around to point out where I came from.
    Childish? Yes, but fuck it. I might have come here from the States, and it was my motherland, but Russia gave me something America failed to do.
    Home, family, legacy.
    And fuck if I allowed anyone else to insult it in front of me. "Maybe then you shouldn't do business with people of the 'hard regime,'" I said calmly and gestured for my men to get in the car. I barely restrained myself from smirking when he quickly apologized.
    "I didn't mean it as in insult. I always liked the country, just not the people. But I can't stand most people in my country, so it's nothing personal." His attempt at a joke made the situation worse, not better. "Have you thought about the business?" he finally asked, while Richard studied me, a frown on his face. Not that I gave a fuck.
    I wore black shades, and the rest of me was unrecognizable to him. Nothing in my bulky build, beard, or power could remind him of the skinny, hungry,